The healer understood much of what she did not say. “Choices are often hard,” he said softly. “But don’t you think yours was already made?”
“I guess there never was a choice. I ride the only way left open for me.” She smiled a little weakly. “Sometimes though, it seems to me I am very unfit for this task. Why would the gods lay so careful a trail and spend so little time preparing the one who must follow it?”
“That is the paradox of some of our best tales, Corin,” Cantrell said behind her.
Gabria turned and greeted the blind bard. “I doubt anyone will sing tales of my deeds. Everything I’ve done has been unlawful.”
“It is the ending of the tale that often decides that,” he replied.
Seth came through the palace doors and saw Gabria. He came to join them. “Corin, I need to see you. Are you done here?”
Piers looked at the cultist in obvious distaste. “Go ahead, Gabran. We’ll talk later.”
Seth strode out the doors, expecting Gabria to follow. She hesitated. Her eyes met Piers’s, and she saw his unmistakable support and affection. Comforted, she ran to catch up with Seth.
The silence was the first thing Gabria noticed when she and Seth passed the last building and came into sight of the inner wall. They slowed and Gabria stared around with a growing suspicion that something was wrong. There was no one by the inner wall, so they walked through the first gate to the bailey.
On the battlements above, Savaric, Koshyn, Ryne, and a crowd of warriors were leaning against the stone parapets, staring down at the fields. No one moved. Beyond the fortress wall everything was quiet. There was no sound or sense of movement in the valley below.
Following Seth, Gabria picked her way over the trampled dirt and tumbled stone to the stairs. They joined the chiefs on the parapet and looked over the wall to the fields. The sorcerer’s army was in full array; the men stood in stiff ranks in a large crescent around the mouth of the valley. Everything was totally still.
Lord Koshyn suddenly stirred and pointed. “Look.”
A large wagon carrying a number of men and pulled by four horses rolled out of the ranks of men toward the fortress. The defenders watched in growing suspicion as it crossed the bridge and stopped by the remains of the catapults. It turned ponderously around, and the men on board heaved off something large and black. As the wagon pulled away, a gasp and a moan of anger rose from the watching warriors. It was Boreas, the spear still protruding from his chest.
Medb did not give the clans long to recover from their shock. Horns suddenly blared from all corners of the field and four horsemen, bearing the banners of stark white, trotted out of camp. They halted by the dead Hunnuli. The horns continued to sing until the fortress echoed with their music. A second Wagon rolled slowly down the road. Behind it came a procession of Wylfling warriors; in their midst rode the sorcerer on a large white horse.
Gabria stared at the sorcerer in amazement, for she had not known he had healed his crippled legs.
Medb’s brown cloak had been discarded for a long robe of white—the color of death, the color of magic-wielders. He raised his hand and the procession stopped. Medb motioned a second time. Three Wylfling soldiers dragged the stumbling body of a man from the wagon to Boreas’s body. They stepped back and Athlone fell to his knees. The horns stopped.
The clansmen immediately recognized the wer-tain, and a cry of rage roared out of the fortress.
Lord Medb laughed and spurred his mount forward. A Wylfling warrior seized Athlone’s head, yanked it back to expose his throat, and poised his dagger inches away from the jugular. The clans grew quiet and waited.
“Khulinin. Dangari. Bahedin. Jehanan. Hear me!” Medb shouted. “I wish to congratulate you on your success thus far. You have held off your defeat quite admirably. However, your luck will not carry you forever, and I am afraid that when you fall, I will not be able to control my men. They are growing impatient and very angry. Most of you will not survive. But I do not wish to lose four clans, so I have a proposal for your consideration. Is there any man who will listen?”
After an angry pause, Savaric, Koshyn, and Ryne climbed to the top of the parapet and stood side by side. With a blade at Athlone’s throat, they had little choice.
Lord Medb leaned forward like a snake eyeing its prey. “The terms are simple. For the safe return of Athlone, I want the Hunnuli, the Corin boy, and the four chieftains turned over to me. If these hostages are given quickly, I will withdraw my army and allow your clans to go in peace.”
The chiefs exchanged glances. “What if we refuse?” Koshyn shouted.
Medb snapped a word. The Wylfling stepped back from Athlone. At another word, an invisible force yanked Athlone to his feet and held him spread-eagle in the air. From out of the ground, pale flames of red and gold flared up and around his body. Athlone writhed in agony, but Medb’s magic held him mercilessly fast.
“Athlone will die very slowly before your eyes. And then your clans will follow,” the sorcerer replied.
For a heartbeat, Savaric wavered. He would give anything to save his son from death. He would gladly surrender himself to Medb if he thought that Athlone would live. Unfortunately, he was certain of only one thing: Lord Medb could not be trusted to keep his word. His treachery was as plain as his heresy. Without a twitch of remorse, the sorcerer would slay his hostages, massacre the clans, and destroy Athlone anyway. In a voice that belied the tearing grief in his heart, Savaric shouted, “Your terms are intolerable. We cannot accept them.”
Lord Medb threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t jump into your fate so fast, Savaric. Give yourself time to think. You have one hour. At the end of that time, you will surrender the fortress or die.”
Without warning, Medb raised his hand and pointed to the great bronze gates of the fortress. A blue fire sprang from his fingers. It struck the gates in a brilliant flash, searing along the edges of the bronze doors and scorching the stone arches. The ancient arcane wards in the entrance held for a few moments, then they cracked under the tremendous power and the gates crashed to the ground.
The clansmen stared down in horror as the dust slowly settled around the broken gate.
“One hour,” Medb called. “Then Athlone dies.” He stopped the flames around the wer-tain and waited as the Wylfling planted a post and hung Athlone up by his wrists. Then Medb reined his horse around and rode back to his army.
Gabria watched Athlone. From where she was standing on the parapet, she could not see his face, only his body hanging limp on the pole. She felt someone move beside her and turned to see Savaric staring down at his son. The chief’s hands clenched the edge of the stone wall as if he wanted to tear down the parapet.
“Are you going to do anything to save him?” Gabria asked, although she knew what his answer had to be.
The chieftain shook his head, not even looking at her. “There is nothing we can do. Medb will not free him and I will not sacrifice the clans.”
The girl nodded in understanding. Silently, she left the parapet and walked up the road toward the palace. Nara was waiting for Gabria in the big courtyard and came to join the Corin as she sat on the rim of the fountain.
For a long time, Gabria ignored the people passing by and stared at the mare waiting patiently by her side. The glorious Hunnuli, Gabria thought, they are as intelligent as humans, telepathic, impervious to sorcery, stronger and swifter than any other creature, and totally devoted to those few humans lucky enough to befriend them. They were creations of magic.
Everything Gabria had learned in her life had taught her to reject magic in any form, yet the clans did not reject the Hunnuli. In fact, Gabria began to realize how much magic was still a part of clan life. The magic was hidden behind different names, but the power was everywhere. It seeped in the rituals and traditions of the priests and priestesses; it was guarded by the Oathbreakers; it was sung of by the bards; it was embodied by the Hunnuli; and the talent to wield magic was still passed on from generation to generation.